


until my hands can reach across

by portions_forfox



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-23
Updated: 2012-04-23
Packaged: 2017-12-15 15:25:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/851095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/portions_forfox/pseuds/portions_forfox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>. . . thinks how much better it is Zayn never did see him looking.</p>
            </blockquote>





	until my hands can reach across

**Author's Note:**

> This shit is fake.

It’s the night after the biggest concert of their lives and Zayn’s the happy drunk, goes wandering up the stairs to their hotel room, bottle in hand, big grin on his darkened lips. “No elevators for us to _night_ , huh, Li!” he insists, and his voice echoes off the marble walls, _Zayn Zayn Zayn_ reverberating. Liam smiles because tonight he’s drunk as well, drunk and hazy and on top of the world like he always ought to be, and it’s times like these Zayn tends to grab his elbow, shift him closer for support.

Zayn sighs a song outside their hotel door—Niall’s got the single ’cause he’s sick-drunk tonight—and if Liam rewinds the daze in his mind he thinks Zayn might’ve said, like, _Goes a little somethin’ like this, yeah?_ , back a little more and maybe, _I heard this song one time, it’s like_... Liam’s not quite thinking straight, not quite wanting to, and he’s leaning the side of his ribcage into the side of Zayn’s, kind of closing his eyes a bit, yeah, when he feels Zayn’s chest throb, feels the music echoing off every bone in his body, chipping away a little crack on the surface of the white with every note, like that, yeah. Like he can hear Zayn glowing.

The song feels like something Liam can’t quite remember, even as he’s there, even as he’s listening. Maybe it was sad or maybe it was sweet but knowing Zayn it was probably both. He flicks his eyes to Zayn’s throat, sees it humming, thinks how much better it is Zayn never did see him looking.

 

 

Zayn’s got a million contacts in his phone, a million girls whose names can’t quite work out how to stick. He calls Elisa when Liam calls Danielle, calls her when he's lonely ’cause he knows she’ll make him lonelier. 

Elisa has this thing where she likes to leave scars, likes to bite and cut and press until he bruises. She leaves this, like, love bite on his neck, yeah? Only not the kind that Lou leaves when he knows Zayn’s being an asshole or the kind that Harry leaves when he’s feeling kind of horny (or the kind that Liam leaves oh yeah never, because of all the lads Zayn’s the only one who hasn’t gotten a love-bite from Payne), but a different kind, like, _don’t you fucking forget don’t you dare fucking forget._

And in the hallway outside their hotel rooms they’re all getting ready for an interview. Harry’s racing down the corridor naked and the cleaning lady who doesn’t speak English is covering her eyes in prayer and Louis’ chasing after him with a rolled-up newspaper and a pair of underwear (Lou’s or Harry’s, no one will ever know), Niall’s laughing as Becky does his hair, and Zayn, Zayn’s leaned up against the wall with his eyes closed and his head tilted back, lungs aching for a smoke.

Liam catches sight, not of Zayn but of Zayn’s Elisa, and he purses lips like only Liam can. He comes over, stands stock still in front of Zayn. Tucks one arm under his elbow. Looks up. 

“Jesus, Zayn,” he hisses, and Zayn calls Elisa because he knows Liam will be closer in a moment, will nick some skin-colored makeup from Becky and lean in to trace cold fingers over Elisa’s purpled teeth, carved into his neck. Knows the smell of Liam’s hair thick beneath his nose. Knows he’ll feel Liam’s wet finger paint away the swell of violet, the slowly blooming bud of bruise, and there’s some sort of cold satisfaction to be found in the fact that Li won’t look at him.

 

 

Zayn takes a girl out behind a club one night and she comes back like a rose, red, flushed, that shine on the contours of her face that people get when they know somebody loves them. Think somebody does, anyway.

And Zayn, he sinks into his chair looking like he’s drunk on shadows, across his face, his eyes, his shoulders, and God Jesus Fuck it’s dark in here. He lights up a cigarette, stares over Liam’s shoulder, blows it thick and gray into the dark.The girl is talking with her hands instead of her mouth again, tends to do that when she’s happy, tends to do that when she’s got attention, fills her empty words with meaning in her hands.

“You all right, mate?” Niall whispers in Liam’s ear, rasping over the pounding music, and it’s impossible that Zayn could hear but he knows these sorts of things, Zayn Malik.

“ ’M fine, Christ,” Liam blushes, but this time he doesn’t waver, this time he stares straight ahead and won’t look down.

Zayn breathes another cloud of smoke, and Liam’s starting to think he has less air than smoke inside of him, like, like if you open him up from the inside out he’d just fall apart in your arms, float away on the wind. Hard to keep around forever.

 

 

Next day Zayn’s still half-drunk mainly because he’s so fucking hungover, and his body eases into the swing of the morning—Harry’s naked, Niall’s giggling, Louis’ flirting (with Harry, at least), and Liam comes around to soothe away the scars. He might sigh a little bit when Liam’s hands first graze his skin. He won’t say it’s not intended to hurt.

His eyes are closed and he’s zoning out, right, but he glances down for a moment for some reason he can’t quite place in the haze and sees Li’s hands are bare and tracing circles on the mark, and he’s got this frown on his face, thick brows furrowed and head bent close to Zayn’s neck so each warm breath is close, and there isn’t—there isn’t any makeup on his finger.

Liam looks up and away and at the ceiling and at Niall. Turns down the hallway. Laughs at something Louis’ just said. He’'s alone and Zayn’s alone and the mark on his neck sort of glows, and, and _Where’s Danielle now_ , he wants to say.

 

 

Later Zayn croons the same song, low and rumbling, and Liam hears it from the other bed, across the room, in the dark. It feels like one of those moments you can’t find again once you look for it in the morning.

“That song,” he whispers, “what is it called?” Zayn’s voice cuts off and he’s startled—Liam can hear the other bed creak as Zayn turns abruptly. He wasn’t supposed to be awake, he knows. He knows.

There are a few beats of silence before Zayn whispers back across the chasm of the room, words falling soft like blossoms onto Liam’s far-off bed. “Can’t remember,” he admits. Clears his throat. “My aunt, she used to sing it when I...” And it’s the type of sentence that was never meant to end.

And that, really, is the end.

The chasm’s not so much a chasm anymore as what you might call a bridge, a doorway—a leap of faith. To be honest Liam’s surprised he’s the first to cross it, but as long as the truth is coming out he knows he’s been stronger than Zayn all along.

Zayn’s warm when Liam crawls into bed with him, and maybe it’s sad or maybe it’s sweet that Liam knows exactly the place, the scar on his neck to kiss him, but knowing Zayn it’s probably both.


End file.
